Covered In Darkness
by TobyWong
Summary: Connor's search for Rachel's killer plunges him into obscurity, turning him into what he despises...
1. Chapter 1

**I – John the Revelator**

Shane Collins turned hurriedly on the corner and made out through the bucketing rain the mouth of a dark alley in which he implored he would find temporary relief. He ran towards it and entered total obscurity. He treaded recklessly inside till the hardness of a wall made him realise that he had reached the end. With his hands, he sought a corner and ducked against it, as the words of his grandfather hammered inside his head.

Shane, you'd better be a good boy and study. Then you go to university, get a degree and a decent job. Stay away from the gangs, drugs and all those noxious stuff. Never had he listened, and did otherwise. He joined one of the many gangs that roamed New York City. He had always been very attentive and soon he became a point of passage for whatever information circulated through the City. Anything that happened, he knew it.

This had gained him a certain reputation and standing, and many benefits derived from it. That night, he had been outside the Garden, waiting for a chick – one of many that gave away their pride just to share some time with him - , to see the clash between the Knicks and the Bulls. Ewing against Jordan. A match worth every cent of the ticket, and he would surely get laid after it.

Then he had felt that stunning headache blasting inside his head. And then the lunatic had appeared. A brown-haired, dark-looking man appeared before him and started asking questions. Shane demanded to know if he was a cop, and the other threatened to take his head! He had turned to run, and he had been running away for the last hour or so.

Again, his head spun. He saw the dim light darken and a shadow slowly moving forward from the mouth of the alley. Only he had to gaze to know that it was the same man.

"Come out, come out. I won't hurt you if you give me what I want."

Threats had never scared him. Even when he was involved in a menage de a trois with the daughter and female cousin of one of the leaders of a rival gang, and the man had signed his death warrant. He survived three attempts, the last of which miraculously. He could have sworn that a bullet had ran through his heart but the doctors said he was OK. Hallucinations caused by tension, they claimed. So why this guy had him as panicked as a sissy?

"All right, man." He left his hideout with his hands up, as if the other were a cop, and maybe he was. "I don't know what you may want, but I –"

He was pushed harshly against the floor, and he felt one of his front teeth crack. He endured the bitter taste of his own blood as the breathing of the other whistled in his ear.

"Who did the bombing of the antique shop?"

The voice was coarse and filled with rage, but it came out almost in a whisper. Antique shop? Was this guy referring to the antique shop in Hudson Street? That had been a month ago. Rumour had it the owner was to blame, eager to cash in the insurance. The cops had been unable to find him, and it was said that he might have killed himself because his aunt died in the incident. There were other rumours as well, especially one that was very weird.

"It was said... that the owner did it..." he stammered.

"No, he didn't. Who did IT!" The guy screamed and Shane felt his trousers going wet, and not because of the rain or the humid floor.

"I don't know... someone hinted that it was a religious job."

"Who!" Again, the voice sounded like the choir of Hell to Shane.

"I don't know... I DON'T KNOW!" Shane broke into tears of sorrow and pain. He felt the grip of the other on his neck tighten and then loosen. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, he saw his deformed face on the blade of a sword.

"Who, if I may ask again?" A mock kindness came out with the words.

"Some said it was a priest, wearing a black hat. But I swear to God I don't know!" He shut his eyes to wait for the deathblow... that never came.

He opened them again and found himself alone. After an eternity, he dared standing up. Tears had slid from his lids and melted with the raindrops. He wiped his face and slowly and in constant panic started to leave the alley. Odd thing, his head didn't ache anymore.

-----

"And the Lord believes in us, he has faith in us. That is why he will forgive our trespasses if our repentance is true and viceless."

The crowd stared mesmerised at the speaker, a longhaired man dressed in a neat white suit with a black shirt and a blue tie. He had been speaking for an hour or so, and every word and gesture he made was returned with affection from the believers.

He liked attention, always had. After some centuries, he had improved his prose and way of addressing the public. And now he was acknowledged as the best preacher of all America.

Then came the feeling, the premonition of the presence of another immortal. He panicked for a second, then handed back the microphone to his host and started to leave the stage.

"John the Revelator, ladies and gentlemen!" the host said the vital phrase for the crowd to break into applause and chants. He waved at the public before disappearing through a door and rushing to his restroom. He closed the door and waited.

The door was opened and he turned to see who it was. The same man that had stalked Shane Collins was at the door, staring and grinning. John rose and approached to fuse in an embrace with that man. He broke after a few seconds and stared into his face, not liking what he saw.

"Connor... what happened?"

The man walked in and plopped on a seat. He sighed, his face giving away the want of sleep and peace of mind.

"Rachel died... someone bombed the antique shop... I heard there was a priest involved."

"You think I was involved?" John grabbed a seat and dragged it next to Connor, then he sat down. "Don't you?"

"No, John. Even though I know you're a phoney preacher, I know you are as holy as a true man of God."

"Then pardon my bluntness but... what are you doing here?" John smirked, knowing Connor would not be offended by the remark.

"I thought you might know others." Connor hissed.

"There are not many that I know – immortals of course. There's a brother who was in the Army several years ago, but I've heard he's a truly changed man." John shook his head. "Have you considered Darius?"

Connor grinned and chuckled briefly. "Darius hasn't left his retreat in more than I can remember. He wouldn't have come here, let alone to bomb the shop."

"There's a priest called Giovanni. I don't know anything of him. Rings a bell?"

"No..." Connor stood up and fisted in the air. "I'll find that bastard and..."

"What, Connor?" John asked humbly. He stood up and patted his friend's shoulder. "Kill him?" his eyes darkened. "You've already let anger and thirst for revenge overpower you, have you forgotten it?"

Connor fell on his seat like thunderstruck, being hit by visions of bloodletting and cries of pain, himself the slayer of the helpless murdered ones.

"No, I haven't..."

"He who is rid of sins may throw the first stone." John recited badly a verse from the Bible. Connor grinned.

"The line wasn't like that."

"I know, but I don't remember it."

"The almighty John the Revelator knows not a line from the Bible? John, they will discover you." Connor was suddenly gaily and beaming. "What would they say if they found out that the great preacher is a Welsh Protestant converted to Judaism?"

"Then the Revelator would die... and John Crane would be back." John mused as he sat down again. "It is not about words, it's about feelings and belief. I've become Christian now, and I believe I'm helping the cattle of the Lord, ordained or not."

"You know of someone who might help me?" Connor asked soberly.

"There's a fellow. His name is Muriaz. Not an easy lad – he is a junkie and a pederast, but he might be able to give you a hint. I'll give you his address."

John took out a pen and noted down something in a newspaper that surely was a couple of days old and handed it to Connor.

"Thank you."

"Connor... promise me you won't do anything outrageous. I know you've hunted Slan Quince after Ella died..."

"I won't do anything 'outrageous'." He rose from his seat, gazed into his friend's eyes for a second, forced a little smile and walked through the door, under John's concerned look.

AUTHOR's NOTE: Shane Collins is a non-canon immortal. So are the mentioned character Ella and John "The Revelator" Crane. The alias comes from a Depeche Mode song. Giovanni is a character from the coming sequel "The Source".


	2. Chapter 2

**II – A wrong step**

The night became day. As the sun soared to set itself as the beacon of New York City and half the Earth, Connor was walking restlessly towards the address John had given him. He halted at the traffic lights and glanced backwards. There was something that had been bothering him.

The lights changed to "WALK" and he started to move again. He headed towards a deserted street and suddenly hid behind a parked van. He waited, certain something would occur.

A blonde woman, her hair tied in a ponytail, wearing a neat white skirt, a red shirt and a white jacket moved past him, searching for someone he was sure who was, strode past him. He grasped her roughly by the arms and pushed her against the van.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "Why are you following me?"

The woman stammered silently before speaking. "What...? What do you mean, sir? I was—"

"You've been behind me for at least an hour. Who are you?" Connor's voice became deep and coarse.

"I don't know what you're talking about, MacLeod!" she said it in a tone that had almost convinced Connor, until a slip of the tongue deceived her in the last word. Her face reddened and she gave in to distress. She was really pretty, and she had a nice pair of blue eyes, as well of another nice pair a few inches below.

"I'm sorry." He apologised, realising he had been brusque, and let her go. "Who are you?" he asked again, this time calmly.

"OK. My name's Scarlet Lambert. I'm a Watcher."

"A what?" Connor queried.

"We've recorded your activities, and those of all the other immortals, for a long time."

Connor rationalised what she had just said. That meant that she knew everything about him? About Ramirez, Heather, even Duncan?

"Bullshit." He spat out.

"Last night you visited John the Revelator, who is actually your friend John Crane, whom you met when you captained the "Dido". Before that, you hunted and scared the shit out of Shaun Collins. Before that, you've been on a headhunting spree after information on who might have killed Rachel."

Connor stared at Scarlet numbly. So these people knew about immortals.

"How...?"

"It's a long story to tell how I started on this. It's not that I live on this but..." she stopped when she realised he wasn't listening. Connor had staggered back and glared at her with discomfort. He turned and left. Scarlet watched him do so, and waited till he was far enough to continue tracking him, though she shouldn't.

-----

Connor turned into the street where the domicile John had given him was supposed to be, visibly affected by what he had learnt. Ramirez had said that mortals should never know, because they would fear and drive him away. Though Connor knew better enough to disregard that opinion, he found himself befuddled by the sudden cognition of mortals who did know – and had known for a long time – of immortals and never interfered.

The bell that rang in the back of his head announced he had arrived at Muriaz' place. It was a numb, old building that seemed left to fall by itself. The outside paint was cracked, and at least a dozen of windows were broken. Not many people lived there, surely.

He opened the main door and walked in. There was no elevator, only the stairs, which loomed upwards. Connor began his way, remembering that Muriaz was only in floor 2. Two floors later, he found a deserted alley which led to an open door at its furthest end. From inside that apartment, he could hear some heavy metal tunes. Though he had never liked that sort of music, he grinned at it, wondering why.

Connor treaded towards there and stuck a head to make recognition of the place. It was an empty room. To the door's right, a neatly done bed extended towards the wall, behind it a table with a pile of pocket books. Opposite to the table, there was a small table in which a blond-haired blue-eyed lean man who was having some ravioli, dressed in a sweatshirt and trousers, and with a rapier next to him.

"You're Muriaz?" he questioned unfriendly.

"Yeah. Joseph Muriaz. Judging by that beige mackintosh, you must be Connor MacLeod." The other replied calmly before gulping a fork with two ravioli in it. "Take a seat. Want some?"

"No."

"You miss them pal. What can I do for you? You're here to fight? Or you want something else?"

"You heard about the antique shop bombing?" He grunted.

"Yeah. Sorry about your daughter."

"Do you know who did it?" The question was violent, lacking any courtesy whatsoever.

"No. I've heard rumours only. An immortal priest was said to be involved." Murias replied calmly.

Connor felt fuelled by anger. He stood up and clenched his fist on Murias' shirt, making him stand up with a strength that shouldn't be normal for a man the Highlander's height.

"Who did it!" Connor bellowed.

"I told you I don't know, MacLeod!" Muriaz responded with a little fear, as he tried to calm down the other gesturing with his purple-dotted arms.

"I think you do, but you don't want to tell." This time some cleverness leaked through the coarseness of his voice.

"I don't. Now get out or I'll call the cops!"

Connor smirked angrily and let him go. Muriaz pulled his shirt to straighten it and didn't notice Connor's katana drawing in against him until he felt an acute pain in his neck expanding and then his brain emitting signals of dolour that blasted his head as it plummeted against the floor.

"Now I'll know." Connor hissed, going on his knees and lifting his sword to the roof. The door closed by itself. The lighting began to flicker. The cold brought by humidity ceased. The heat brought by a heater ceased. Connor felt his body stiffening as the quickening seized him. The lights cracked and the dust of the floor soared, creating a whirlwind that surrounded Connor, as bolts hit him.

When it was over, Connor stood up detachedly and stared highly at the corpse of Muriaz. Then he felt a knot in his stomach at the realisation of what he had done. How could he—? And for nothing. The man had been telling the truth. God and the Child! Revenge doesn't lead anywhere, let alone to the never-accomplished redemption immortals seek fruitlessly. Finding the killer wouldn't bring back Rachel.

Gripped by guilt and repentance, he ran away from the apartment and the building, as he would also do from New York, walking hurriedly away in the deserted street, unaware of Scarlet's presence so close, containing the disgust the murder of Muriaz had brought.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: the two characters introduced in this chapter are non-canon.


	3. Chapter 3

**III – Power.**

Utretch, the Netherlands.

A week later.

In an abandoned warehouse, sword lashes echoed preternaturally. A large, bulky man contained as he could the several blows from the other, a smaller and slimmer man. However small the lad looked like, Charles Owen, the big immortal, a Liverpudlian of 500 years of age, thought, he had an impossible strength for someone his shape.

He parried a chop and countered with a strong whip that, notwithstanding his usual accuracy, missed, and Owen found his scimitar cutting the air, the inertia of the blow sending him imbalancedly out of his defensive stance. The blade of the other carved through his back and he hissed as he fell on his knees.

"Who are you?" he gasped, knowing that his measure of life was to end soon.

"I'm Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod." The other squelched back.

MacLeod? The Highlander? It couldn't be. He was said to be a brave man, fighting on the good side. The struggle against evil had always had him as one of his strongholds. He was not a man to be found where Charles had, in the Red Light district, doing a prostitute against a wall without her permission. Himself, on the other hand, usually flirted with the hookers, and had cheated more than one for free sex.

He had been a pirate. He had murdered and raped women and boys of different civilizations and tribes. He had enjoyed it. He no longer felt the need to seize children, but an attractive woman, one with rounded breasts and large hips, turned him on. He deserved hell and death, but to a fine man, not to this stranger who dared tarnish the name of a brave warrior.

"My arse you're MacLeod." He spat.

"Shut up!" the victor yelled.

He raised his katana and let it fall against Charles' neck. The head came off easily and the other opened fully his arms to embrace the quickening. The body was engulfed in blue light, as yellow thunderbolts struck the winner. He shrieked, enjoying it, desiring more, more and even more. How he understood his cruellest enemies now. Power, what a thrill to have. Despite what that effete snob of his mentor had said...

-----

The Highlands of Scotland, 1542.

"What is there for the last one?" Connor MacLeod, a longhaired filthy Highlander newly born to immortality, queried yet again. He had the feeling his mentor, Don Juan Sanchez Villalobos Ramirez, concealed something, so he was asking for the nth time, should Ramirez let something out that hadn't been told the time before.

"The Prize, of course. But that will be at the time of the Gathering. The last of our special brethren will gather, to battle to the last." Ramirez, a cocky elegant man with grey hairs and a funny moustache, dressed in extravagant, and surely uncomfortable, tight red clothes replied as he gazed at the sunset. "Haven't I told you that already, you fool?"

"You have, but... why we fight?"

"If you ask me, MacLeod..." Ramirez stroked his moustache "... it is the possibility of limitless power. The Prize will make one of us, Princes of the Universe, a King beyond anyone's dispute. Many find that appealing."

"What about you...?" Connor inquired.

"Power... what is it but the ability to control somebody else?" Ramirez said poetically. "When you grow as old as I have, you realise some things are more important than others. When I courted Cleopatra, she had legions spread under my feet. I could have been the true ruler of Egypt..."

"And why didn't...?"

"Power can be addictive, MacLeod. I am immortal, so are you. The world can't know we exist. If I were to get gripped by power, I would be unable to let it go. And soon they might realise the king is ageless."

"I don't want any power over any other man... it's useless if you're not happy." Connor commented.

"I'm glad you don't." Ramirez smiled. "But you will still fight. You may not want to rule, but you will want to stay alive. The only way to do that is by getting closer and closer to the source of strength: immortal power... the Quickening!"

Connor felt his mind boggled. Again he mentioned that funny word. Ramirez had had him raise his hand to be hit by a bolt of lightning. It had been a very strange thing. He had felt himself joined to this Spaniard in a way he could not understand.

"The Quickening... I don't like it." Connor protested. "You know what quickens my heart, you haggis? Seeing my bonny Heather beautiful, tender, and unharmed."

"Allow me to say I'd prefer it as well... but I've told you already..." Ramirez said seriously. "You must let her go. She will wither and die, and you will watch helplessly."

"I know that... but... I can't." Connor's voice cracked.

"I hope you someday gain enough strength to do it, before she..." Ramirez stared silently at the dark clouds that were gathering above them. "MacLeod... are you willing to try your words?"

"Aye. What do you want?" Connor challenged.

"I want you to find and behead one of us... and I want you to return and tell me and Heather that you didn't enjoy the power unleashed by the quickening. Do that, and I promise I won't bother you anymore about leaving her." Connor rationalised. Where in bloody hell would he find an immortal? "I know what you're thinking. Ride north. There you will find another of us."

Connor clenched his hand round his claymore tightly. "Fine, brother. Tell Heather I'll return to her as soon as I can, that neither heaven nor hell will keep me away from her, let alone you, you Spanish peacock."

"Good luck, Highlander. I pray your words end up being true."

"They will, Ramirez. They will."

Connor rode away, being gripped by an uncertain sensation of fatality he didn't understand. He found that immortal and defeated him easily. But the quickening brought a power he was unable to reject. Never had he felt pleasure or pain like it.

He had returned to tell Ramirez he had been wrong. But the house had fallen down and Ramirez was dead. Heather told him amid cries that a hulk in a golden armour, whom Ramirez referred to as "Kurgan", appeared and beheaded the Spaniard. He had the queer sensation she was hiding something, but he dared not tell her that he had also taken a head... and wanted another.

------

Connor MacLeod rose after the quickening. Ramirez was a fool. The Kurgan had told the truth. Power is to be enjoyed and accumulated. Connor would have lied had the Spaniard been alive. He would pretend nothing happened, so that he could return to the tranquillity before Ramirez appeared, when there were only Heather and him.

Connor remembered he had a wife to return to. He thought of her and felt his jeans tighter as he walked away, wondering what would be soon.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Charles Owen is yet another non-canon immortal. Connor's departure to the north is the explanation I give to his absence when Kurgan calls in at the MacLeod home.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV – Living hell**

FOREWORD: this chapter contains some things which may or may not hurt the sensitivity of readers. You have been warned.

Aberdeen, Scotland.

A week later.

Inside the large bath, engulfed by foamy water, Alexandra Johnson MacLeod lay silently staring at the way the glycerine soap started to dissolve as it drowned. She passed a foamy hand through her neck, liking her own touch. Slowly, it tripped down to her bosom, arching upon the shape of her firm breasts, accompanied with her hiss of pain.

She eyed her left nipple, around which there was a purple circle, a reminder of the living hell Alex had endured since her husband had returned. How can a man change so much in two weeks? Though two weeks was the time it had taken her to meet, bed, and fall in love madly with Connor MacLeod. Add one more week to the calculus, and she was married.

They had met in 1990. Alex had found in Japan the cave of the legendary sorcerer Nakano, and also opened the door of the eternal jail of the evil Kane, who emerged after more than 350 years to the world again. Also, she had found a piece of tartan, belonging to a banished member of the clan MacLeod.

That piece of kilt led her to Connor, who was hiding under the alias Russell Nash. But Kane had also found him. Alex found herself amid the battle of the two immortals on holy ground, the sole place where immortals are safe. Connor's sword was shattered, and he flew back to Scotland to shape a new one.

Alex found herself impelled to give Connor a piece of Nakano's own metals to create a stronger katana. That had been the bridge to join them. A night of lust followed and afterwards, they returned forcibly to New York. Connor had to defeat Kane, and save John...

John. The sweet Moroccan boy that Connor had adopted at the age of 2 and brought up as his own son, and taught English. The boy had been kind to his father's new love and considered her as a mother, the one he never had, a feeling reciprocal by her.

They had been devastated when Connor received a letter from Sweden. An old friend of him had died. He announced he had to leave. Connor spent a month away without sending word to them. One day he returned. Alex remembered seeing him return from the van, so full of love for him as she was. A strange shivering had gripped though.

A couple of months later, he said he was leaving again, this time for New York. He had to meet his cousin – or whatever he were - Duncan, and visit her other daughter, Rachel. He claimed he would return for Christmas. But he hadn't. Not for Christmas, not for New Year. February brought him back.

She smiled acidly, evoking the first moments after he locked the door of their semi-detached house. She was cooking some meat when she felt his firm hands on his buttocks. They kissed deeply and descended to the floor. Her tee shirt was soon off as well as her bra. His lips were hovering all over her. She felt her skirt being pulled up and her underwear ripped off, so unlike him.

Alex felt him love her with lips and tongue, sweetly. She giggled like a baby, but soon it became horrid when she felt an acute pain between her legs and blood, her own blood, slipping down her thigh. She glared in fear at Connor, smiling wickedly, his mouth and teeth stained with red.

Then he had forced her. Awfully, viciously, violently, cuffing her with his hands to silence her. She felt the pain in her mouth and everywhere else. When he was done, he let her mouth go. She let out an inaudible cry to which he replied slapping her. He had pulled her up against the kitchen table, and then made her turn to take possession of his saddle...

She had crawled upstairs painstakingly to the bedroom when he finally let her go and not effortlessly turned on the shower. She felt the water cleansing her slowly, as she dreamt of another place to wash away the pain. She blinked and found him by her, obscenely observing her.

She tried to cover herself as though he had never seen her nude. He grinned cynically as he raised his index and made it move sideways. Then he had stripped and joined her in the shower, where he had shoved his manhood against her rudely, before she had to do things she would repent for good.

John returned from school a few hours later, when Alex was curled up under the blankets, sobbing madly, while Connor was someplace else, his lust finally having been satiated. She had heard John call out to his father, then he had screamed. Several noises that gave place for the unthinkable in Alex's mind followed, and then John's cries was all she could hear, and the only thing she would hear ever since.

And all in one week. She closed her eyes to drift away but she heard that coarseness calling out to her.

"ALEX! JOHN!"

Connor had arrived, surely drunken again, his veins so stuffed with vodka. Several bottles were scattered around the house. She heard John whine after a slap, and it was the last straw. She left the bath, covered herself with a towel and left the room, heading downstairs. She found Connor bare-chested sitting in the sofa, with John lying on the floor, swollen eyes shedding tears, imploring to the man he still saw as his father.

"Hey!" she called out. Connor turned, eyeing her up and down, a lustful grin on his mouth.

"Hello pretty..." he greeted her acidly.

She let the towel fall and her glorious naked body was before him. She caught a glimpse of John's shocked face but she didn't care. She lay resolvedly against the stairs and opened her legs fully, revealing the extent of her sex to him.

"You mother fucker son of a bitch, come for it!" she defied, imploring to the Lord for self-control. She noticed the kid was backing away unstopped. That was good. Then he felt his rude hands seizing her, and soon his manhood was thrusting ruthlessly inside her. She gasped in pain, as his hands clenched around her neck harder and harder, choking her. As she blacked out, she knew he wouldn't stop, not even when he was done. And she was glad that her living hell would soon come to an end...

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I set the events of "Highlander III" when "Highlander II" was shot. Connor's trips were, as mentioned, to justify his presence in Duncan's shop in the episode "The Gathering" and in the "Endgame" flashback when Rachel dies. And I NEITHER APPROVE NOR DO I CONDONE ANY OF THE THINGS DONE BY THE CHARACTER IN THIS CHAPTER.


	5. Chapter 5

**V – Sacrifice.**

"John!"

Connor called to his son, whom he had seen run into a large park. It was dark and he liked the night. It was warm. Unlike the body of that useless bimbo, good for nothing except a fk. Her corpse was probably cold by now, but it would still do, if a little stiff. For a while, till it started to rot.

The kid had run away. When he had been done with the bimbo, he had gone after him. But the boy had proven elusive. Worthless punk, he had gone through a lot of trouble to save him from Kane... he should have let the sorcerer slice him in pieces and serve him as chop suey.

He halted, feeling the dangling bells of immortality call. John was still too young to give off such a signal. When he grew older, it would become stronger, and even more when he perished. Connor let out a grin remembering when he had found him in the orphanage. His own immortal boy to raise and bring up... and when he was ripe enough, to kill and behead upon rebirth.

So there was another immortal in this place. Who would it be? Connor had a few acquaintances in Britain. Thackeray? Nah, he was dead. Fitzcairne? Too scary a chicken to walk alone at night. It had to be someone else.

"Connor..." a familiar female voice called.

The Highlander turned. Two immortals were in front of him. He recognised both. One of them wore a white suit and long coat, and Connor smirked at John Crane, who stiffed his mouth in response. His eyes posed on the other. A shorthaired woman with jet-black hair and eyes scowled at her, wearing loose trousers and a grey shirt which opaqued her petite body. His tongue slipped out and it stroked his lower lip.

His eyes went further, spotting behind them a third party: the nagging Scarlet Lambert, who stood fearfully at safe distance from the image. John saw his eyes on her and glowered.

"She's irrelevant, Connor. Focus on us." He said simply.

"OK!" he said genially, an attitude mocking the others. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we have two very special hosts." He extended his arms, playing for an imaginary audience. "The shepherd of the Christian God, that before denied the existence of Jesus Christ, and before believed in predestination." His voice notched down a bit. "Let's omit the fact that he was a sadistic pirate... please greet John "The Revelator" Crane".

He began to clap and wave at the invisible crowd.

"This is pathetic!" the woman commented.

"And next, straight from the lands of Beowulf, a Nordic beauty who is as hot as hell... and is the best slut one will ever find." Connor grabbed his crotch impolitely. "She's come for more, ladies and gents. Please greet Erja Soderlung." Again, he made the farce of the clapping.

"Cut the joy, Connor." Crane ordered.

"What do you want!" His deafening shriek echoed in the dead of night.

"We're here to help you, Connor." Erja replied. "You've absorbed too much darkness. The Kurgan, Kane, that pig Muriaz..."

"You've also beheaded Charles Owen, haven't you?" John spat out.

"Owen? That drunkard good for nothing I found in Holland? Yes."

"Owen was not a fine man, but he was still a fellow. We shared many ships a long time ago. His death was hard for me... but your situation saddens me more."

"Oh, how touching!" Connor mocked. Crane opened his coat and drew out a cutlass. "Look at the priest, so willing to fight."

"John..." Erja drew out a neat grey Japanese katana. "I'll handle this." She approached, raising the sword at her face's height, putting her palm at the end of the hilt, as the blade aimed at Connor.

"Oh, the pussy has claws." MacLeod taunted, producing his own katana. "I wonder how much your fighting has improved over the years."

"Not much, I fear." She replied as she began to draw circles slowly around him, measuring up her opponent. "I spent a century on holy ground. I've devoted myself to God."

"A nun?" Connor feigned a lunge in order to test whether she would be ready. Upon seeing her shiver, he knew she wouldn't. "They're great bimbos."

"I wouldn't know." She stopped. "John... find the boy and take him away."

"Erja... what are you...?" Crane queried worriedly.

"Just do it!" she cried, tears welling up in her eyes.

Crane didn't reply. He just moved away. Connor saw Scarlet went behind him.

"What are you going to do, Erja? Try to kill me?" He teased her, testing her mental endurance. "You know I've defeated the strongest, and you stand no true chance against me."

"Really?" she feigned carelessness, though her insides were on fearful fire.

"I think you're scared to death. Like a soldier prone to battle... like a virgin on her first night..." his tone acquired a peculiar tone.

"Shut up!" she cried, drops rolling down her cheeks.

They had met in London, in the mid 1850's. Erja had been an orphan born in Scandinavia, purchased by a pimp and brought to London to work. She was barely fifteen and still undefiled. Connor MacLeod had been her first man. She had been scared to death, but he had been gentle and kind. He had taken her without violence, and she had almost liked it.

He would return every once in a while, and she had secretly yearned for him over the years. One of the savage beasts she had as a client had a thing with knives. He had made a few cuts on her but the knife went too deep and she was mortally wounded. She died and woke up alone, dirty and panicked buried underground. She dug herself out and found a helpful hand that dragged her out: John Crane...

After a few years under both men's wing, she went on her own and when she took only less than a dozen heads, she withdrew to holy ground. John would visit her occasionally, but she would never see Connor again... until now.

She owed a lot to both. Now that she was feeling John and the kid were no longer around, it was time to pay her dues.

"Do you recognise this sword, Connor? It belonged to Ella." She said nostalgically, the face of a mutual friend flashing in her head. Poor Ella, she had been stripped of all she cared of by Slan Quince till she didn't want to live anymore, and Connor had stormed after him in vengeful rage. But at least she didn't see him in this state.

"Ella belongs to the dust. And soon will you." Connor groaned, arching his body forward to strike. Erja did likewise, gathering all her strength to move. As their bodies approached at a frantic pace, both weapons lunging toward the other's neck, she beamed one last time at him and let her weapon go, herself still going against him.

"May this save you, Connor MacLeod!" she cried before the Highlander's sword took her head. Connor grinned, seeing her corpse fall as she wondered what she could have had in mind to put up that stupid farce. She would have surrendered her head without it.

The Quickening began. White light engulfed him, and he welcomed her little power. Erja's feelings gripped him and he evoked the happy days together. Grief and guilt seized him yet again and he let out a meaningful shriek of pain, as tears began to roll down his cheeks...

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Erja Soderlung is another of these non-canon characters. The character Ella is supposed to be the friend of Connor killed by Slan Quince, her death being the reason for Connor to be after Quince, according to what the producers once said.


	6. Chapter 6

**VI – Inside a church**

Inside the nearest church he could find, Connor gave way to shattered sobs of pain and grief. He had murdered Erja. Though he didn't love her, he cared deeply for her. He had always had. And he had taken her head... even worse, she had offered it to him and he had ruthlessly beheaded her.

"You look troubled, my Son." He raised his eyes to find the local priest, an elder bald man in his sixties, sitting by him, sympathetically offering his aide. Connor straightened a bit, wiped the tears off his eyes and looked away. "Would you like to confess your sins?"

All in him compelled him to say he didn't. "Yes."

"I hear you."

"My daughter died a month ago. Murdered." Connor hissed. "I've hunted and killed people to learn who did it. I..." Connor saw how the priest felt uneasy and it boosted him to continue... for some reason. "I killed my own wife... I did unmentionable things to her... and to my son." With self-disgust, he felt his mouth stretching and forming a smile.

The priest stared away in horror at this sinner speaking gladly of the atrocities that he had committed, then placed his hand on Connor's. "The Lord shall forgive you, my son, if you show true repentance. Pray twenty Hail Mary's and read in the Bible—".

"The Bible?" Connor burst into sudden laughter.

"The book of the Lord. " The priest happened to have a copy of it with him and he showed it uncomfortably to the Highlander.

"Ah, the Bible." Connor was now mocking the priest. "I heard it contains truth."

"It does. It tells of the sacrifice our Lord did to redeem our sins." The priest added.

"That shall be his undoing." Connor grunted, standing up, eerily amused. "I am unworthy of being here, so I'll leave." He turned to the alley and walked heavily out. "I have something to say." He returned his eyes to the front, finding the priest alone. Not another soul was in the church. "Some other day, perhaps." He pointed at an image of Jesus Christ. "I'll see you soon, buddy," he blasphemed before pacing away.

He left holy ground, wondering what he found so amusing in his appalling and ununderstandable attitude. Then he felt a buzz in his head. Another immortal. He glanced around and returned to the church. The priest was gone and he hid behind a lateral column.

A man dressed in a neat suit and a long coat walked in, carrying a briefcase with him. He was Japanese, and he looked oddly familiar to Connor but he couldn't know where he had met him. The Asian began to look for someone, who had to be the Highlander.

"Looking for me?" he called out defiantly from a dark corner.

The Japanese turned and a face of anger posed on his face. He left the briefcase and produced a katana from under his coat. Connor approached simply, not bothering in drawing out his own weapon.

"Connor MacLeod!" the Asian shouted.

"Yes, that's me. And who are you?"

"I'm Kajima Akira."

"Oh, hi." Connor mocked with his face at the way the man spoke as if he should know him.

"Draw out your sword and let's settle this." The other said anxiously.

"You really want to do that? You want my head?" Connor defied, viciously amused by the situation.

"Of course. My honour's at stake."

"Honour? What a cliché coming from your people. But fine." Connor quickly grabbed Kajima's blade by the sharp part. His hands bled but he paid no heed to them. He placed it on his neck and made sure it sliced him, however superficial the cut was. The blood began to flow, and a tiny drop started to leave its mark on Kajima's blade. "Come on." He defied. "Just a little cut and you'll have my head, my quickening, and your pathetic little honour."

Kajima clenched his fists on the hilt of the katana. He wanted to do it. Connor could see it in his eyes. "Iyé... Iyé..." he quarrelled with himself.

"Of course not, you fool. This is holy ground. Whoever your mentor was, and he was surely an idiot to train such a fool, he surely told you that this is holy ground, and we can't kill on holy ground." Connor leant a millimetre against the katana, feeling his skin opening at the kiss of the sharp blade.

"What... what are you doing?" The Japanese asked in horror.

"I'm curious. Don't you want to know what might happen if one of us kill on holy ground. Who knows?" Connor bullied. "You might become stronger. Then you might be a match for a worm!"

The Highlander let the blade go and Kajima retired it carefully from Connor's neck, focusing on the bloodstained blade. He shook his head.

"Let's go outside, Highlander. And we'll finish this."

"I don't fancy, Jappo." Connor grunted. "I will stay here as long as I want."

The Asian produced a handkerchief and wiped the blood off the sword. Then he hid the katana under the coat and stepped back.

"You're a coward, MacLeod. A dishonourable coward... still a barbarian!" Something lit up in Connor when he was called like that. "Jin Ke was right. But I'll wait. Patience is a virtue."

Kajima left. Connor watched him do so, wanting to run after him to take his head on the spot, so innerly desiring his head, his and the heads of all the others. But memories were pervading him, making the bloodlust he had been feeling flicker and fade, replaced by recollections of a different time and place...

AUTHOR'S NOTE: the comment about the Bible is taken from the trailer of Christopher Lambert's coming film "Metamorphosis."


	7. Chapter 7

**VII– Interference**

Japan, 1600.

The leaves rustled under the feet. The atmosphere was wet and humid. Heat scorched him, but he kept on walking. Aimlessly, with no fixed purpose. A stranger in a faraway land, eyes so different, clothes so different to the inhabitants. A kilt and a clothing of skin were so unique in this land, and it made him long for home again.

He strode through a forest, lured by something. Something ominous that yet was beyond his understanding, one of many things that had came along with immortality: that disturbing sensation that made his blood stir and his body seek for another like him. He was able to control it, though he knew that one day he wouldn't.

Voices could be heard, speaking in the impossible to understand Japanese language. He drew nearer, feeling the sensation reach his brain, causing odd premonitions to fill it. He tightened the grip on the yak-skinned scabbard that folded his katana, probably the only thing he had in common with that country, so different to his Scotland.

He went past a tree and halted, contemplating a very extravagant scene. There were three men alone. One was kneeling on the ground. In his hands he held a small knife, one that the reminded the stranger of a dirk a friend had given him once. One of the others backed off a few steps, while the other stood close to the knelt man.

"Mother of God... what is this?" he wanted to know. The man on his knees overheard him and glimpsed at first, then stared.

"Kappa! Kappa!" he stammered, his whole body bursting into a frantic reaction. The stranger hid behind a tree and passed unnoticed, and kept peeking in at the scene.

The man apart from the other two commented something. The other shook his head sympathetically, then uttered something that seemed to calm the kneeling man, who took a deep breath and adopted a stiff stance.

He felt the presence of the immortal becoming closer. Too close for comfort. He glanced backwards and found a longhaired man, slightly different from the Japanese he had met – all of whom looked the same, -wearing a curved hat, staring at him distrustingly. In his hands he bore no weapon.

"I'm Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod." The outlander introduced himself. The other muttered a name that he didn't understand and his eyes moved to the scene. "What's going on?" Connor asked, giving his voice the tone obvious for such a question, if any tone would fit.

"Seppuku," was the whispered answer.

As he tried to understand what in tarnation that meant, the kneeling man squeezed the hilt of the knife and held it at chest-height, its tip pointed at his stomach. A grim, nauseating sensation invaded Connor. Then the man plunged the knife fiercely against his own stomach. A deaf whine from his mouth followed as he twisted it, ensuring the laceration of his guts, and dragged the blade through his belly. Blood and intestines began to land on his lap.

Images of the death of his friend Nakano haunted him instantly. Nakano had died on his knees, suffering a vicious stab from Kane. Then Kane had beheaded him. But Nakano was a sorcerer, and as such, he used the bulk of his power, unleashed upon his beheading, to make the cave they were in collapse, burying Kane and his henchmen for eternity.

He had been ordered away, and a tiny part of Nakano's power reached him, and with it the images of the sorcerer's death. Connor had been shattered, and was unwilling to let somebody else die helplessly again. He moved forward, having seen the man next to the suicidal beginning to draw his sword out of its scabbard.

The other man was too far away to stop him. The armed man had his sword raised to the sky, and he lashed neatly at the neck of the other, so focused on his task that he didn't see Connor approaching, not until his blow was diverted by a strong piece of skin.

"Kinjiru!" he bellowed in dread as Connor pushed him away. The suicidal let out a weak cry and fell without life to the floor. The one apart from them had already drawn out his sword. Connor dragged them to a clear spot a few steps behind him. The others were staring in horror at him. The Highlander shot a glance at the longhaired man, who had been watching all the time, as now he did, a gesture of curiosity in his face.

One of the men chopped at him swiftly and skilfully. Connor grasped the tiger-shaped hilt of his katana and pulled upward to block the blow. The deafened sound of metals colliding echoed for miles. The man stared in disbelief. Connor kicked him in his loins to push him away. The other struck without delay, a lateral blow aimed at slashing his chest. The Highlander removed the skinned scabbard at the speed of sound and delivered a strong counterattack against the katana of his opponent. The Japanese's sword flew away and Connor ducked to stab him deeply, if awkwardly. The man gasped as blood flowed down his lips.

But the other Japanese was coming again. Connor was unable to draw off his sword in time. The Asian raised the sword to the heavens as he stormed forward. Connor stood and when the other bent his arms forward to cut, he grasped the sword from the Japanese's hands and stole it, making a full twist to slash his back mortally.

The Japanese fell dead. Connor dropped the sword and stared in dread for a second at the image of his own doing. He sighed profoundly before he removed his katana from the corpse. Then the other immortal spoke.

"Very well. But now I must kill you." The words were clear to Connor. Perhaps because of the two Asian immortals he had fought and beheaded before his path and Nakano's crossed.

"Who are you?" he demanded, a little turned-on by being able to engage in a chat.

"My name is Jin Ke." The man approached. "You, Connor MacLeod, have dishonoured this man" he pointed at the man that had stabbed himself "and all his line."

"Me?" Connor touched his chest to emphasise. "How?"

"That man was samurai. He was granted the opportunity to commit seppuku, a ritual in which a man's stained honour's redeemed before departing to the skies and back as a new being." Jin Ke picked a sword from the man Connor had impaled and removed it roughly. "His name is dishonoured for eternity. And I will do my best to cleanse even an ounce of it."

Jin Ke made the sword spin in his hands. Connor squeezed the grip of his katana and struck. His first blow missed by nothing, the second one ran afoul of his opponent, and the third and final one met the other's blade. Jin Ke held him for a second before retreating quickly and leaping above Connor's missing chop to land behind the Highlander and thrust deeply in his back.

Connor gasped, feeling the pain scorching every inch of his body. He felt his heartbeat increase and the images of his life in Scotland invaded him again. The Highlands. What he wouldn't give to return, to visit his bonny Heather's grave, right where he had left his claymore to mark it?

Jin Ke removed the sword from his body and Connor fell. His wish of life made him try to protect himself from the Asian by raising his sword to cover his neck, however lame and useless an attempt it was.

But something made Ke retreat. He stared at Connor's katana. The Highlander saw how the Asian put down the sword and tossed it away, grinning with a strange air of serenity. Connor's wound didn't hurt anymore, so he rose.

"What...?" he gasped, still shocked.

"It is the sword of Tak-Ne, neh? Forged by the master Masamune?"

The question unbalanced Connor. Tak-Ne was the original name of his mentor and friend, the late Juan Sanchez Villalobos Ramirez, the Spanish peacock. There was only one way this man could have known that.

"Yes."

"How did you obtain it?"

"He's dead." Connor stiffened.

"By you?"

"By the Kurgan." Connor grunted, feeling a strange anger soaring from within.

"It is a pity. He saved my life once, and refused my offer for permanent service. I've owed him ever since. However much I despise you, Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod..." Jin Ke stopped to crack his knuckles "... my duty to him is first to my duty to this man's honour." He moved past Connor, stopping right at his back. "But I curse you and all your line of honourless barbarians. The next time we meet, I will not be bound."

Connor felt his knees trembling. He had been so close to death, and so defenceless against that Jin Ke. If he couldn't defeat such a tiny man, what chance he had against the Kurgan? He needed to improve his training. Ramirez' training had done his part. Nakano's training too. Ramirez had once mentioned an Otavio Consone that lived in Italy, a gifted swordsman from whom Connor might be able to learn some more things.

Connor MacLeod decided to leave Asia and head for Europe again. As he treaded away, he felt the need again. He would visit Italy, but he would then go to Scotland. Something told him someone needed him there...

AUTHOR'S NOTE: "Kinjiru" means something like "forbidden" in Japanese. "Kappa" is similar to "demon. The other words are, from my point of view, explained, so writing anything else here would be futile. Jin Ke's presence's meant to justify a little more his alliance with Kell.


	8. Chapter 8

**VIII – Closure.**

At the door of a derelict storehouse in the suburbs of Edinburgh, Connor felt the presence of an immortal. She clenched his fists around the note inviting him there at midnight. He didn't know who had written it but... it would be interesting to know who was the wormfood-to-be.

He drew out his katana as he walked inside, finding total darkness, which he liked. Suddenly a square of light burst farther from him. He let his eyes adjust to the new illumination before making out a male shape further.

His hand tightened its grip on the katana. It was too weak a sword, too light. He dared not use it fully, for it might break. He should get a new blade. Maybe steal Duncan's from that hut in Scotland, or seek and behead an immortal which a nice sword. Only for a sword? A reason as good as any. All of them would die in due time and he would rule the World and the Universe.

Then he felt another person coming slowly from behind. He deigned not turn. He knew this new immortal wouldn't strike. They still played by the rules. Fools.

"The time has come, MacLeod."

Connor grinned, turning to recognise Kajima Akira. He raised his blade and shook his head with a broad grin.

"Baka! So good to see you again. You still want your honour?"

"Hold it! Both of you!" the shape that had been there in the first place approached, and John Crane stared at the two would-be combatants.

"John!" Connor greeted his acquaintance cynically. "How nice of you to call in." His eyes posed on a swelling at the Revelator's waist. "Oh, you're turned on?? Or that's a sword you're carrying there?" Crane opened his blue coat and revealed the hilt of his cutlass.

"This is between him and me." Kajima protested.

"You are a fine man, Kajima Akira. Your honour is not stained in any way. You may leave pleased with yourself, and with your head above your shoulders."

"You think that will make him leave?" Connor teased. "It won't... by the way, where's my son?"

"I don't know, Connor. I had him placed overseas to a place I don't even know myself."

"Nasty of you." Connor's voice was growing more and more coarse and cynical. "And the blondie?"

"I'm here, MacLeod."

Connor turned to find Scarlet Lambert holding a .357 in her right hand, behind Crane. He could see the fear tripping down as sweat, her pale skin glimmering in the pale light. He would get rid of these two... and then he would make her his. Why would he need the corpse he had taken after returning from the encounter with the Jappo if he had such a warm container?

"I told you not to get involved." John lectured. "Get away."

"I won't!" Kajima suddenly burst, unscabbarding his katana and thrusting at Connor. The Highlander dodged and the other two suddenly seemed to disappear to them.

Kajima struck up and down, right and left, all neat and precise attacks that missed by a hair's lenght. Connor retreated amused, dodging the other's blows without trouble. The Asian halted for a second and then began again, in a flurry of stronger, faster yet clumsier movements.

Connor started to have difficulties in remaining harmless. He felt his skin barely escaping the touch of the blade. He rose his weapon and parried a blow fiercely. Kajima staggered back, astounded by the force. Connor saw the man's resolve flicker.

"You're mine, Jappo." He insulted.

He went forward, his sword arching up against Kajima's neck. He grinned as his blade descended against the neck. The Jappo could have moved, had not he been petrified by fear. What a lousy worm!

The head fell and Connor stared at the blood-dropping bare neck. Nice, isn't it? No, it was not. Kajima was a fair man, he told himself, realising of the atrocities he had committed. He went down on his knees as the quickening seized him, making him shiver with dread. The building trembled and for a second, it seemed it would fall.

When the whirlwind went away, Connor fell on his knees, feeling the death of Kajima deep within him. But he also felt Erja's death, which had unadvertently welled inside of him till it burst now. Added to it, he had murdered Alex in the most vicious way. He hated himself. He had become what he despised, and what he had always fought against. He broke into tears as he dug his face in the dirty floor.

"Connor... it's over." John's voice soothed him.

"I... killed... them..." he stammered sadly. "KILL ME!" he bellowed as he glared at the rooftop in a cry for deliverance.

"There's a place... there're people... " John knelt and embraced his shattered friend. "The Watchers have a place where immortals can rest. It's called Sanctuary. "

"Sanctuary?" Connor gasped.

"Aye, lad." Crane's native tongue emerged in that sentence. "You can rest till you feel your sins relieved."

"Really?" Connor also hugged his friend.

"Yes. You can stay out of the Game..." John helped Connor to his feet. "... and let the darkness die."

John released Connor and stepped back to let his friend walk out, but suddenly the Highlander pulled the cutlass out of his open coat and made a sharp cut in his chest. The Revelator gasped, stammering backward, as he saw his friend viciously lunging toward him, weapon ready to strike at the neck.

"Darkness will never die!"

Connor's shriek came out as John's head fell. He smirked at the corpse and burst into mad laughter. He had gone insane. He knew it. John's soul would cleanse part of his quickening but the element of obscurity would still be within him.

The quickening seized him. Crane was an older immortal than Kajima, and had taken far more heads. Thus, the quickening was greater, and the building shook and collapsed over him as he shrieked with pleasure...

-----

Somewhere, sometime.

"How long have I been underground? An Unfathomable long, or maybe short, period of time. My eyes have already adjusted to the lack of light and darkness and the other dormant immortals are my only, eternal, companions.

"My days, weeks and years passed, pass and will pass monotonously. Here I shall be hibernating always waiting for something new, an odour, a sound... As it was in all my years, happiness always ending. Only that there's no happiness to terminate now. I'm alone.

"I have crossed the line. I mustn't leave this place. I'm a threat to mankind, as Ramirez said. Men will fear me and try to drive me away. I am to be feared. I am evil.

"I don't know nor does it matter when the darkness seeded on me. All I know is I got lost... and maybe I will never see a way out of it."

**END**


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